


All Is Now Harmed

by youregonnabefine



Category: X Company (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Episode Related, Fighting, General Emotions, Injury, M/M, PTSD, Post Finale, Sexual Tension, Tension, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youregonnabefine/pseuds/youregonnabefine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are tense for the whole team considering how long they've been in occupied France and how much worse things are getting in Europe. As the tension builds between Neil and Tom, it becomes obvious there's more than just general animosity behind their constant altercations.</p><p>Title from Ben Howard's album "I Forget Where We Were"<br/>Rated M for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Flies

Clear – it was all clear. The kid hadn’t signalled. The extra letter had been and innocent mistake probably caused by pressure – pressure that he was the root of. Neil’s insides shrunk. He had killed him for nothing. _Nothing._

From somewhere seemingly far away voices were telling him to speed up and get them out of this town. He couldn’t. His vision was tunneled and getting worse with ever erratic breath, dark shadows closing in on the margins of his sight. Numb and retreated, Neil barely observed himself ease on the brake and pull over to the side of the road. The others were looking at him now. He could feel it more than he could see it. His hand grasped at the door handle and he stumbled awkwardly out of the vehicle, feet ghosting over the road. He couldn’t take it – couldn’t acknowledge them. He could barely keep himself afloat.

In a haze of heavy breathing and fuzzy thoughts, Neil stumbled down some stairs and around a corner to face an obstinate rock wall. He sucked in a breath that his lungs barely received. _Innocent and dead._ His accusations fired disjointedly inside his head. _Your fault. You killed him. For nothing. For nothing. For nothing._

Panic built up behind his eyes.

His knuckles grazed the rock wall in a burst of energy, a short roar escaping from deep within. Pain splintered across his knuckles, reverberating through his wrist, and kicking the panic to the back of his mind.

_“I’m glad it’s you doing it."_

Another swinging hit, the shock even sharper in this hand.

_“It’s cruel to make me wai-”_

Another. A whole blitz of them.

The Boche was standing behind him in the alley – he could feel his invading presence, a ghost over his shoulder.

_“You’re going to kill me when you’re done. I know how it works.”_

Pain.

_“I stopped believing in this war a long time ago. I’m already a traitor.”_

Blood pumping in his ears.

_“He betrayed us.”_

Bile choking in his throat, and still he kept swinging.

_“Is it strange if I say it was nice to meet you?”_

Someone was calling his name but the crashing pain was all that flooded his watery focus.

_“It was a mistake! Trust me, trust me! Please trust me!”_

A hand wrapped around his shoulder. “Neil! Hey!”

Neil whipped around, blood pumping and hot, eyes fidgeting and ready for a fight.

“Hey, calm down.” It was Tom. 

They locked eyes suddenly. Spit flew from Neil’s mouth. 

“You did nothing wrong.” Tom stated with resolute eyes.

Neil was panting like an animal. Things were slowly coming into focus. The sweat collecting on his brow, the burning in his split knuckles, Tom’s features softening, desperately willing him to understand. 

_For nothing_. 

“Back off.” Neil growled as he brushed past Tom, suddenly pacing. 

_“I’m glad it’s you and not a stranger.”_

“You were right, he’d seen too much. We couldn’t take the risk.” Tom drew closer to the other spy. 

Neil stilled. Things suddenly very sharp. Too sharp. “I said: Back. Off.” 

Tom shut up but didn’t move. After several charged moments with his back to the other spy, the Brit’s heavy breathing began to slow. 

Tom stood with his hands hanging useless at his sides, uncomfortable and unsure of how to handle this. “Neil…”

“Tell the others I’ll just be a moment.” Came the exhausted non-response. 

Tom nodded. Maybe he really did just need space. “Ok.” 

He shifted his weight as he turned to go, raising a hesitant arm in the process. “If you need to-” 

Within milliseconds of resting his hand against Neil’s shoulder, Tom found himself stumbling backwards, thrown off balance by a thick hand around his neck, and staring dumbstruck into Neil’s twitching face. 

“Get your hands off me.” The spy commanded, drawing out every word with unwavering eye contact. 

Tom could only choke in response. His two-handed grip on Neil’s thick forearm was the only thing keeping him standing. Neil huffed, displeased, but released his grip. 

Tom collapsed halfway – his hands falling to his knees, and gasping for air. The cobblestones below his feet looked too close and then too far away as his vision adjusted to the rush of oxygen. He caught the sound of a last few measured footsteps as he recovered, and when he looked up Neil was gone. 

He mused briefly at how long to give it before returning to the car as well, and settled on leaving right away. No doubt the others already had a million questions; there was no sense in putting it off and giving them more.

* * *

 

The rest of the drive turned out to be graciously quiet. The team knew well enough to bite back their questions, and whatever Neil had simmering under his skin stayed put for the time being. Unfortunately the silence turned out to be a double edged sword. With nothing to distract, Tom kept replaying the evening in his head. Specifically the moment when Neil had whipped around and grabbed at his throat. 

_“Get your hands off me.”_

For one gut wrenching moment Tom had been hit with a panic that struck right to his core. _He knows. He knows I’m a…_ But before the panic could lead him to foolish action, something about the twitch in Neil’s cheek told had assured him that the confrontation had everything to do with the shit going on inside the other spy’s head. It had nothing to do with his preferences - nobody here knew. He’d been so careful, there was no way they could. His secrets were safe, for the time being. 

* * *

 

“When was the last time you did it, Tom?” Neil cut in. “Took a life in the line of duty.” 

Tom glared at the other man. Of course he’d had to get involved in this. The whole team stood in the middle of an apartment’s living room – their makeshift H.Q. for this mission. 

“When did you actually follow through?” 

“Took a life?” Tom echoed, approaching the Brit. “Followed through? There’s a simpler word for it Neil, and yeah, I’d rather not kill if I had the choice.”

“What did you think we were gonna do here!” Neil shot back, voice stretching high in exasperation. “You know the Chinese think courage lives down in the gall bladder. Hows about I crack you open, I bet we don’t find any gall stones. Bet we don’t find any stones at all.” 

They were standing inches away from each other, and Tom could feel the wild heat radiating off the other spy’s bones. It was the same as it had been the night Harry had been injured. Tom sneered at the thought. 

“You mean like the kind of stones that it takes to kill a kid tied to a pipe in a basement.” He moved in closer, poking the beast. “Those kind of stones?"

“Say that again.” Neil growled, but he backed away slightly. 

Tom followed him, not backing off until he was even closer.

“Say that again!” Neil shouted. 

Aurora and Harry were yelling at them, but to Tom it was practically white noise. _The fucking insolence of this guy. Taking his anger out on all of us for a job that he volunteered to take care of? And now coming after me because I don’t want to end up in the same place? I saw what it did to him! Fucking hypocrisy._

“Say that again, say that again!!” Neil was shouting like a drunk man, and Tom was matching his volume with words he didn’t really care about. He had officially had it with the older spy, and was going to go as far as he had to rile him up. The redder his face got, the more satisfied Tom would be. 

Finally, Alfred bellowed something that cut above all the noise. Tom snapped his mouth shut. The whole room went silent. Neil was seething. 

“It’s hard enough already without this.” Alfred stated. No one seemed to be able to argue against that. 

Tom took one last look at Neil’s petulant face before stepping away and heading straight for the first door he could find. He couldn’t care less what the others did, but he didn’t plan on returning until he was sure Neil was gone.

When Aurora had found him later, Tom had been prepared to tear her head off for allowing Neil to go as far as he did. That hadn’t happened, of course. Aurora never let people give her that kind of shit. Instead, he’d been left with a cautionary warning, and a growing dread that things would only get messier as the day went on.

* * *

 

The brass lighter clicked to life in Neil’s shaking hands, warming the end of his Player’s cigarette. It was his last one from the precious packs he had stocked up on during their last stay at Camp X; soon he’d have to return to the standard issue Woodbines. _Fucking Woodbines._ Neil sighed and brought the smoke to his lips, fidgeting with his lighter in his free hand. The street he had taken shelter on was quiet, but that really wasn’t unusual lately. 

He leaned up against the side wall of the building housing their HQ and did his best to keep his head in the present. Focusing on each drag from the smoke, he could feel the rough brick scratching against his back, and the sun warming his forehead from somewhere far above him. He had a mission to do today. Another hit. The target was reportedly unstable, but Neil supposed the same could be said about him as well. Probably was – by Tom, if not the others. Neil smirked at the thought. 

Then he cleared his throat to wash out the anger that had begun to boil in his gut. 

He repositioned himself on the wall – bending one knee so that a foot rested against the brick behind him along with his slouched shoulders. He took another breath from the Player’s, held it for a moment, and then exhaled very slowly. He bowed his head to study the beaten street beneath him, the curls of his short dark hair absorbing the brunt of the sun’s warmth for the time being. 

Tucking the lighter in his jacket, Neil passed the cigarette into his left hand and let it hang loosely at his side. Flexing his stiff fingers, he opened and closed his right hand several times, feeling the burn in his nearly recovered knuckles. Curling his hand inwards, he thought back to the night he had wrapped it around Tom’s aggravating little neck – the pads of his fingers digging into his vulnerable flesh, the bend at his index and thumb crushing against the gasping man’s windpipe. Neil still didn’t know exactly what had set him off so drastically that night, but fuck it had felt good grab that mouthy bastard. To shut him up for five seconds, to so clearly hold all of the power over him. All of the control. The way he figured, shrewdly calculated phrases did you no good when you had a thick hand strangling your throat. The young man was a manipulation specialist. He was always playing games with his words and it never failed to set Neil on edge. You could never tell if he was telling the truth or working towards some dubious end game. 

_“You signalled to your friends. Yes or no?” The knife was warm in his hand, the Boche’s hot breath gasping against his neck. There was no reply, and Neil desperately needed one._

_“Tell the truth. Everything you said was a lie! Bloody yes or no!!!” The kid went limp, warm body sagging into Neil’s arms. Neil huffed and practically through him to the floor, forcing himself to swallow his own lie. It was a signal. He’d betrayed them – that was all there was to it._

A sudden gasp of air rushed down Neil’s windpipe. The cigarette dropped out his limp fingers and dizzy stars blinked in his clouded vision. His tired foot slid down the wall landed on the ground, kicking what was left of his last Player’s into the street. Neil cursed and leaned his head against the brick, closing his eyes against the glaring sun and trying to regain his lost breath. 

“Neil?” A concerned voice called to him. 

_Is this some bloody joke?_ He clenched his fists and kept his eyes shut. 

“Neil, hey! Are you alright?” The young man’s footsteps grew closer.

Neil begrudgingly opened his eyes and straightened up. Making eye contact, he didn’t say anything in reply but shot a loaded glare at Tom and waited for him to leave. He didn’t. Stubborn Yankee. 

“You looked like you were about to pass out.” Tom explained, choosing to stand about two feet to Neil’s left and somewhat in the street. 

“What do you care?” Neil spat out, glancing from Tom’s shoes to his now trampled Player’s. It had been ruined before, but of course Tom had rubbed it in by smearing it into the cobblestones on his crusade over here.

“Are you going to be okay today?"

“Don't think that's much of your business, is it?” Neil shoved his wrinkled sleeves up his arms. 

“If you’re not fit to complete your mission today Aurora’s going to need to know.” Tom took a wider stance, tasting the animosity in the air. 

Neil chuckled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Another life saved for little ‘mercy’ crusade, is that it?” 

“If you’ve got something against me than say it to my face! Don’t just second guess my intentions every time I say something!” Tom stepped forward.

Neil shoved off the wall strode towards the defensive American. He stopped about a foot away, just close enough to look up into the other’s eyes from below his brow. 

“You’re a coward, Tom.” He rumbled.

Tom barely flinched, but Neil knew the stone-faced game was just a façade to match his own attitude.

“And you’re a hypocrite.” Tom bit back.

They stood like that for too long. Both men fully aware a fight was on its way, but neither conceding to throw the first punch. 

Neil eyed Tom – his bunched fists, his set shoulders and flared nostrils. His stupid fucking lips that always had a smirk hiding behind them. He wanted to pound him in the face so badly – hit him square across the mouth and watch those pretty-boy lips split and spill blood all across Tom’s teeth. With any luck, Tom would be stupid enough to step this little standoff up into a full out brawl and Neil would get the chance to do just that. Neil bit his own lip and waited.

Tom could feel his fingers digging into his calloused palms. The older spy was so close to him Tom would have no problem reaching out and around the back of Neil’s waist. Ideas like that always threw him off guard. Most days he hated Neil – disliked him at the very least – but the man tripped something in his gut practically every time he rolled up his sleeves to flex his forearms. Tom forced himself to look away from the bulky arms in front of him and back to the face that belonged to them. Neil was studying Tom’s lips, he was sure of it. The man had no idea what he was doing to Tom. That his anger wasn’t the only thing Neil’s aggression was fueling. And for fuck’s sakes did he just bite his lip? 

Without warning, Tom reached out and wrapped a hand at the base of Neil’s neck, fingers dragging in his curls, and brought their mouths together before he could stop himself. He began mouthing him hungrily, his other hand pressing forcefully against Neil’ thick side. The second Neil’s mouth parted in shock, Tom shoved his tongue inside desperately and then pulled the man even closer so their hips touched.

Neil grunted in surprise, caught completely off guard. He could feel Tom’s lips pressing against his, his tongue pushing into his own flaccid tongue. But more than that, he could feel himself doing nothing – standing in the street mute and static as another man held him firmly with their mouths together as his fingers tangled in his hair. He couldn’t move – he couldn’t even discern how to feel. 

He broke free in an instant. Before either man could register what was happening, Neil yanked his head away and then threw the Yankee off of him with a curt blow to the chest from the butt of his hand.

Tom stumbled backwards, shame immediately blushing his cheeks. Neil was staring at him with wild eyes. In the middle of the street. Where anyone could have seen them. 

Tom’s eyes flew around desperately, quickly locating a dark alley just a few meters away. There was a lot he needed to do, but first on the list was getting out of public view. Neil had apparently been on the same tracks as him, because in two short strides he had a hold of Tom’s jacket and was dragging him towards the shadows.

Once around the corner Neil whipped his arm around and threw Tom against the bleak wall. His neck snapped backwards as his head collided with the stone, but neither men were incredibly concerned with headaches at the moment.

“Neil…” Tom pleaded in a broken voice, one hand clutching the back of his skull and the other reaching out towards the Brit. Neil stood as far away from the man as he could while staying out of sight.

“Neil, please. I’m sorry – I don’t know where that came from. I’m not…” Tom’s shoulders fell further. “I’m not queer.” 

“Yeah, sure you’re not.” Neil’s cheeks were burning.

Tom stared at his feet, ashamed at more than just the lie.

“Makes no difference to me, in any case.” Neil stated, still panting for breath. “Seeing as how I’m…” His hands waved in front of him, searching for a word, “…Traditional, I suppose.” He didn't know what he was saying.

Tom nodded. He’d never doubted it. He really didn’t know what had possessed him to kiss Neil – other than basic attraction - and in the middle of a street, no less. He licked his lips and swallowed a lump of regret.

Neil cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I thought you were about to punch me.” 

Tom huffed. “I did too.” 

Neil smiled – only slightly forced. He took a step closer to the younger man. Whatever aggression had existed moments ago had completely vanished - replaced by something else, a palpable shame between the two men. “Tom…” Tom had yet to look Neil in the eyes. He didn’t know why but he felt like it was important to change that. “Tom look at me.”

Finally Tom raised his chin a few inches and met the Brit’s eyes with his head hung as low as he could manage. “What?” 

“I won’t say a word.”

“Of course you won’t.” Tom sighed. “You couldn’t tell anyone about this – they’d assume you were _involved_ too.“

“No, I don’t mean – “ Neil paused and took another step forward. “I won’t tell that you’re a queer.” 

“I’m not a-“

“Don’t bother.” Neil raised a short hand. “For a propaganda specialist you can be a godawful liar.” It wasn’t the complete truth, but it applied here. For whatever reason, the usually murky Tom seemed distressingly transparent for the time being. 

Tom looked away again. “Thanks.”

A small tip of Tom’s tongue poked out to reign in a part of his lower lip to bite down on. Neil rubbed his knuckles subconsciously. Those stupid fucking lips. 

For a split second he had an image of pressing Tom’s back flat against that wall and bringing their lips together again in desperate, crashing kisses. Tom’s fingers would find his hair again, and Neil would lean against that hard, flat chest. He could make those lips bleed like he’d always wanted to, but this time be there to lick it off his teeth too. Neil quickly pushed the picture away, passing it off as an anomaly. Something anyone would imagine after that whole experience.

“Right then.” He stiffened. “Good luck with today.” He didn’t bother to stick around for a reply. Just walked out past Tom and straightened his vest in the warmth of the sunlight. He had one hour to put this out of his mind before he had to be mission ready. And all he had left to do the job was fucking Woodbines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Ben Howard's album "Every Kingdom"


	2. Take My Hand, Speak My Name

His neck hurt. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on like this, crunched in the back of the truck, whiplash up his spine with every bounce. There were hands on his torso – many of them. At least two were his own, but he really couldn’t tell at this point. Everything below his chest was practically numb, as if his brain had shut down communication with his torso after so much pain.

Out the back of the vehicle Tom could see hazy blue sky and an open horizon. They were in the countryside somewhere, in a stolen French police truck filled with wanted Jewish refugees. It was complete chaos. And more than that, it was absolutely horrific. The stories, the camps, women and children – anyone with a star. It made Tom want to vomit. Repeatedly.

His neck snapped to the side and then back as his head cracked against the floor of the truck. Tom gasped. Neil must have run over a rock. His stomach rose to his ears and rolled around inside his head. Jamming his eyes shut he clawed out for anything to anchor himself to as to not lose consciousness. His fingers curled around someone’s jacket sleeve, and that was going to have to work.

Tom’s chin was tucked against his chest when he was swiftly relieved by two knees sliding behind his head. He tipped his head back, gratefully sinking into the stranger’s lap. The stranger cradled both sides of his head with their hands, steadying his neck. Tom drew a deep breath. When his saviour began murmuring encouragement and smoothing the hair on his forehead Tom felt so soothed he could almost purr.

He shifted slightly to position himself more comfortably, only then remembering the origin of this whole mess.  Fire shot up his abdomen, his whole midsection suddenly boiling.

“Stay still!” one of his caretakers commanded.

Tom really had no choice but to comply. He could feel his brain beginning to rise, weightless. Disengaging from his body like a balloon with its chord severed.  He knew he needed to stay grounded but there was nothing holding him there. Nothing that felt better than wherever he was headed.

His eyelids fluttered as his hand dropped to the floor.

Someone shook his shoulder violently. “Non, reste réveille! You need to stay awake!”

Tom was trying to. The best he could manage was to keep his eyes open and unfocused on the flapping canvas roof of the truck.

There was some shuffling around below Tom’s line of sight. The man who had taken charge seemed to have shifted into a higher gear of urgency.

“Allez chercher l’autre! Le conductuer. Rapidement!”

Tom lost track of things after that. His senses seemed to be in a battle to drown each other out, and eventually he gave up on discerning one thing from another. All he was sure of was that at some point the truck had come to a lurching stop and everyone except for two voices had gone dead silent.

Then someone was holding his hand. Someone with wide, calloused fingers and a heavy palm. They were talking to him – words that only sounded like gibberish to Tom’s clouded mind. He wanted to see their face but couldn’t find it – couldn’t focus.

The fingers touched his face now, traced his jawline and gripped his chin, tilting Tom’s head to the left where their eyes could finally meet.

It was Neil. Oh thank god it was Neil. Neil was talking to him, holding his hand, resting a palm on his chest. Deep creases of concern spread across the spy’s forehead. Tom wanted to listen, to hear what he was telling him, to ask if he was going to be alright. But all he had the energy to do was stare into the other man’s eyes in desperation. Focusing so intensely on his face that it was the only thing existing in Tom’s head. It was the only thing that could anchor him, and even then…

* * *

A thick lump formed in Neil's throat. 

"Tom?" 

It was a nearly silent question. 

Tom's eyes had shut. His head had drooped even further to the side. The hand in his own had gone completely limp.

Neil shook the spy's chest with his palm. "Tom?" He asked louder, frantic.

One of the Frenchmen had returned with a First Aid kit he had salvaged from the front of the truck. It wasn't in great condition but Neil would take anything at this point. He was being pushed out of the way by the dark haired Jewish man who was apparently a doctor, thank goodness. He knew a little bit about emergency medicine but not nearly enough for this. Tom was... 

He was breathing. Shallow short breaths. Neil tried to focus on that. He was in some real danger, but he wasn't gone. Tom could be stubborn when he wanted to, and Neil hoped that would be enough to keep him alive until they could get better situated.

A better situation - that was something he could take of. 

Neil cleared his throat. "I know a place not to far off we can stop. They might have what you need to save him."

The doctor nodded.

"Is it safe?" A mother from the back piped up.

"Safer than where you came from." Neil nodded and hoped it wasn't a lie. 

He yanked the door shut as he settled himself into the front seat of the truck again. He turned the ignition and paused, wiping at his hot, watery eyes and taking a deep breath. He just needed to hold it together for a little while longer, until they were off the road. Until Tom was safe and recovering. He really wasn't sure if he could do that, but he had no other options.


	3. Empty Corridors

The farm is a small property north of the city. They had used it as a safe house earlier in the war, before Alfred – before everything with Renee. Neil only remembers it because of a notable incident where he’d had to hold back from biting Tom’s head off – he doesn’t remember why – and so Aurora had ordered him to walk it off. That’s when he’d stumbled across the outbuilding. 

It was a cramped concrete structure towards the west of the property with an outward swinging door and blown-out windows. Inside were two cots covered in fragments of glass like confetti. A work table stood towards the back overflowing with bottles and tools and strips of cloth. Neil figured that it must have served as some kind of emergency medical centre for the diminutive village that bordered the farm.

As the truck throws itself into another pothole on the dirt road headed towards the village, Neil prays that it will be enough to save Tom. He’s not even sure if the supplies will still be there. It could easily have been pillaged since the last time he saw them. As far as he knew the whole area was deserted, but he couldn’t count on it. 

 

“Quickly, quickly! C’mon!” 

The truck is stopped directly outside the outbuilding, engine still cooling as the rest of its passengers disembark. The doctor and a few others have rushed Tom through the door and laid him on one of two decaying cots. They are speaking to each other in French – not shouting, but their words sound sharp. 

Neil is useless. And cramped. The doctor is examining the supplies that he has to work with, the others seem to be preparing Tom for whatever procedure is being planned. The rest of the refugees have gathered around the doorway, silently. There is no room for him in here so he shoves his way out into the open. 

There are no lights in the house, but Neil feels unsettled about the entire situation. Maybe it’s just the panic he’s been fighting finally taking a permanent seat in his brain. Either way he grabs the two guns from the back of truck and whistles for everyone’s attention.

“You lot-” he motions to the huddled group of Jews – “with me.”

The extra guns get passed around until they land with people who appear to know how to handle them. Neil leads the group across the grass towards the house.  
It’s dark inside. Despite the decrepit exterior and shell shocked walls, there are still abundant corners inside the twists and turns of the two storey building that are completed draped in shadows. As Neil guides the small expedition through the hallways, pistol drawn, eyes on alert, he fights to keep his mind in the present. His senses keep drifting back to medical shed, to the metallic odor of his comrade’s blood.

A floorboard creaks above his head. Neil freezes in position. 

Lifting a fist into the air, he signals to the others to wait behind him. It could have been nothing – the floors settling against the shaken supports. But there is a weight on Neil’s chest that didn’t exist before. He locates the nearest stairwell and places a cautious foot on the first wooden step. 

The blood is rushing in his head, warming the tops of his ears. Neil exhales a steady breath and mounts the next few steps with his neck locked at an awkward joint, his eyes scanning everything ahead and above of him. 

Things slow as he reaches the top half of the stairs, right before he can see what lies on the floor above. He pauses. 

Breathes.

Thinks of Tom bleeding in the shed, and the Jewish citizens waiting downstairs. 

Then he takes the next step, and the next and the next until he rushes to the top, turning with his gun out to the right and then the left. He is in the centre of a hallway that extends on either side of him, with several open doors. 

He can scarcely breathe. There’s a tremor in his hands he’s never noticed before – his gun is shaking, but just barely. He steps towards the closest door, gun ahead of him like a centurion’s shield. He takes another step, and then he can’t move. He is fixed to the floor, even his arms are suspended. The tremors overtake him, and with horror he watches his grip loosen on his pistol as the weapon falls to the floor with an ugly clatter. 

What the hell is happening? His breathing is erratic, wheezing. Things in the hallway are clouded over with a white glow of overexposure. He can barely stand. 

There’s movement somewhere around him. He knows there is, but he can’t tell how he knows this. He thinks it might be behind him, maybe he felt the floor move or a door creak. There’s something cold and small pressed into the back of his skull, and a dull rolling tone that is trying to communicate something. 

Now there is a figure ahead of him too. He can’t see their face, but he’s fairly certain they have a gun. Neil raises his arms as much as he can. 

“…speak English? Anglais? Tell us who you are.” Neil starts to pick up on the voice behind him. 

Forcing his jaw open, he struggles through a standard lie. “My name is Jack Williams, I’ve just stopped in looking for food. I have others with me, they’re hungry. Please. We mean no harm.”

The white begins to fade and Neil watches, trembling, as the figure ahead of him comes into focus. A young woman with her hair pulled back and Western European features, but he can’t pinpoint exactly where. She is strong and has a secure hold on her weapon, someone has trained her. 

“These others, they are downstairs?” the man behind Neil inquires, with a thick Dutch accent. 

“Yes. All of them.” Neil lies again, thinking of Tom and the doctor in the shed. Trying to keep them safe.

“And do they have weapons also?”

“Yes. Just two of them.”

The woman in front of Neil leaves, descending the stairs towards the Jews. 

“Who are you?” the man questions, gripping Neil by his shoulder and throwing him down the hallway.

Neil stumbles, but keeps his hands raised and regains his footing facing his enemy. 

“We’re from the city, we left a day ago when there were rumours of some kind of coming hostility towards the citizens.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he’s clear on their intention. In his head is a sharp ringing. 

The man before him is in plain clothes. He has a gathering of dirty stubble across his chin and his dirty blonde hair is tangled. The gun he points at Neil’s chest is a small German pistol, but that is the only uniform thing about him. 

“You’re not military.” Neil states.

The man laughs. “No.”

“Who are you, then?”

The Dutchman drops and hand to his pocket, and withdraws a pack of cigarettes. Neil recognizes the brand. He grabs a light next and holds it to the end. “How did you find this place?” He demands after a long drag, ignoring Neil’s question.

The ringing is growing softer, and Neil is starting to get a better picture of exactly what’s happening. He has a theory, and it’s risky but he’s willing to put it to the test. He motions to man’s pocket. “Bum a smoke?”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Answer the question.”

“Smoke first.”

The man seems to barely concentrate the stalemate before tossing his pack of Player’s and his matches into Neil’s outstretched hand. 

Neil opens the small container, making sure to glance at its backside for the stamped maple leaf, and fishes out a smoke. It could be nothing – the Dutchman could have lifted them from a soldier or a captured spy. But there was something about the man’s demeanor that was familiar, close to so many others he had met before. 

“Where’d you get these?” he asks while casually lighting his cigarette. 

“A friend gave them to me. How’d you find this place?” the man lines his gun up exactly with Neil’s heart in a show of force.

“My cousin told me about it once, a year ago. Before he died.”

Neil returns the items to the Dutchman, throwing them in the air and purposely aiming a little short. The man instinctively lunges forward to catch them, which Neil meets in stride with a rush forward and a shot to the man’s wrist. The gun crashes to the floor and Neil stomps on the Dutchman’s boot and twists his good arm around his shoulder and into a firm lock. The man’s face is contorted in pain, but Neil has a hand over his mouth to block any cries. 

“Who trained you.” His voice is low and threatening. “Are with Germans or are you a friend?”

The man continues to struggle, so Neil wracks his brain for a more sure way to get the info. He catches sight of it and looks the struggling man intently in the eye. “Ready, aye, ready.” The man stills somewhat, Neil breathes heavily, optimistic. “I’m going to take my hand off you now, and you’re going to say four words. If they’re not the words I want to hear – if they’re a call for help or if you make any kind of cry for your partner - I’ll snap your arm and knock you out faster than you can stop me. Understand?”

The Dutchman nods, twice. 

Neil slowly lowers his hand, and waits for the response with suspended breath.

The man swallows. “We stand by you.”

Neil could have laughed if he had reason to let himself. What were the chances of this! He knew he had seen this man before, somewhere in his first month of training at Camp X. Camp X, above who’s entrance was chiseled the words of their former prime minister, Laurier, ‘Ready, aye, ready, we stand by you.’ He drops his hold on the man immediately, and returns his weapon.

“And your partner…”

“She is with me also. Trained in Ontario.”

“Unbelievable.” Neil shakes his head.

“I will go get here, and then you will tell us what this really is. And how we can help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the quote mentioned is from Wilfred Laurier, and it was something he said in response to Britain's declaration of war in WW1. It wasn't actually at Camp X, I just needed something to move it along! I promise there's more Neil/Tom stuff coming up.  
> Chapter title from Ben Howard's album Every Kingdom


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